


Catch Us Before We Fall

by gayshiit



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Dead Pennywise (IT), Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris Live, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier-centric, Falling In Love, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Losers Club Reunion (IT), M/M, Post-Pennywise (IT), Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Slow Burn, Sort Of, but he's also like super repressed, but richie's already fallen, eddie and myra are also married but we don't talk about that, eventual smut probably, like it's not the main focus but it's there, stan and patty are married, tiny bit of benverly and stanpat and hanbrough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshiit/pseuds/gayshiit
Summary: They killed IT when they were kids. They went their own ways when they were teenagers. Richie and Eddie somehow manage to run into each other on the streets of Los Angeles twenty seven years later. It’s the moment everything falls apart, and something very special falls back into place.Or, Richie falls for Eddie all over again, literally.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	Catch Us Before We Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, I've had this idea floating (lol) around in my head for a while now, and I've finally decided to write the first chapter to see how people like it or if it even garners any attention. At this point, I have no idea how many chapters it will be, but I'm down to write this thing however long it needs to be. Don't be shy to leave a comment telling me if you like the concept or if you even want more. Any support is very much appreciated :,)
> 
> And, to clarify, Pennywise is dead. They actually succeeded in killing It when they were kids, then lost touch and forgot each other. I'm just out here giving Richie and Eddie the happy ending they deserve, without a homophobic killer clown getting in the way. If you're into that, stick around ;)

Summer in Los Angeles is, in Richie’s opinion, straight-up fucking hell.

L.A. has the sort of hot, sticky subtropical climate that’s somehow appealing to naive tourists visiting solely for the warmth of the sun-kissed city and beaches. For the locals, however, the sun is not something you particularly want to face for long periods of time, unless you enjoy the feeling of your shirt stuck to your back and your hair glued to your forehead like you’re on a tour of fucking Niagara Falls with no raincoat. That’s how Richie feels, anyway. Why anyone would willingly go outside in the heat of the summer for hours on end really baffles him.

Richie hates the sun. It’s offensively bright and hot and often he thinks it would just be a whole lot nicer if daytime didn’t exist at all. He’s basically nocturnal at this point. The only time he leaves the house during the day is if he has no other choice, or if he’s making the choice as a result of a bunch of other stupid choices that somehow lead him to the conclusion that he needs to do something about his consistent failure to exist as a functioning adult.

Richie makes a beeline for the self-checkout in the grocery store with his head down and his phone cupped against his ear like it’s some sort of secret spy gadget. It’s hard to be inconspicuous, though, while wearing a shirt the colour of a fucking traffic cone and practically shouting over the commotion of the store into his phone. Anyone listening would feel bad for the person on the receiving end, and so would Richie, probably, if he didn’t know that this person had already — somehow voluntarily — put up with years of his bullshit.

“Steve, I promise you this is a one-time thing. Don’t expect any drastic changes in my social life.” He starts scanning groceries, balancing his phone between his shoulder and his ear.

His manager chuckles dryly on the other end of the line. “Oh, don’t worry, you know my expectations are always at the lowest they can be.”

As much of an asshole as he is ninety percent of the time, at least Steve has a decent sense of humour. God bless the man. “Thanks, love you too.”

“I’d like to keep this professional, Mr Tozier, if you don’t mind.”

Richie sniggers absentmindedly, turning an apple over in his hands and inspecting it for bruises. Since when does he inspect food for abnormalities? The heat must really be affecting him. He tosses the apple into his grocery bag.

“You could just live off Postmates, you know,” Steve continues. Richie can hear him typing on that awful clunky keyboard of his that Richie hates so much. Whatever he’s doing can’t be too important if he’s managing to hold a conversation with Richie at the same time. “You can afford that shit now. You’re rich, Rich.”

“Woah, I wasn’t aware you were the comedian in this relationship,” Richie jokes, fumbling with a six-pack of cinnamon donuts. “And, I know I could, but I’m trying this new thing called  _ adulting _ .”

“Oh yeah?” Richie can still hear Steve’s stubby fingers flying over the keyboard. He’s surprisingly good at multitasking, although talking to Richie is less of a task than it is ‘free entertainment’, as Richie often likes to remind him. “How’s that working out for ya?”

“Not as well as my  _ thriving _ sex life.” Richie’s tone drips with sarcasm. He scans through his last item and pokes at the touchscreen of the self-checkout. It beeps angrily, telling him to  _ please place item in bagging area, _ and he gives the machine an aggravated shove.

“I keep tellin’ you, man, you gotta get out more.”

Richie rolls his eyes and taps his credit card when the EFTPOS machine finally blinks at him. “I do get out. I get out all the time. I’m out right now.”

Steve ignores him, obviously only half-immersed in this conversation. “You need to meet someone. Try something new, go to a fuckin’ gay bar... or something.”

“Okay, so, I’m  _ not _ gay.”

“Please describe to me the last time you saw a vagina.” Richie opens his mouth to retaliate but Steve knows him well enough to cut him off before he can get a word out. The bastard. “Porn doesn’t count.”

Richie makes a disgruntled sound at the back of his throat and grabs the handle of his grocery bag. “For your information,  _ Steve _ , I’ve seen an abundance of vaginas in my lifetime. Like, hundreds, maybe thousands, if we’re being specific—’’

Steve’s agitated sigh crackles over the line. “Look, I don’t care who or what you stick your dick into, Rich. I just care that you get  _ stuck into  _ writing up the notes for your next show!”

Richie groans obnoxiously, earning himself an odd look from an elderly woman to his left. He stuffs his receipt into his bag and almost jogs in the direction of the exit. “That was fuckin’ terrible. Remind me how you’re the manager of a comedian again?”

“Rich—”

“I know, I know.” Richie pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just give me until Friday and I promise I’ll have something for you.”

“That’s my boy.” Steve sounds bored, but Richie doesn’t call him out on it. That’s not an argument he particularly wants to initiate right now. “That’s my Trashmouth.”

“Alright, well,  _ your Trashmouth _ has gotta go look left and right before he crosses the street or he might be broadcasting his next show from the fucking afterlife.” Richie stumbles through the automatic doors, out into the probably lethal heat and away from the bliss of the air-conditioned store. The sun is absolutely relentless at this time of the day. He can already feel the humidity clinging to his forehead and the small of his back.

“Okay, talk to you la—”

Richie jabs the END CALL button before Steve can finish his goodbye and tucks his phone into his back pocket. After doing some quick calculations, he comes to the unfortunate conclusion that he has approximately five minutes to speed-walk to his car before he starts sweating like a racehorse. He slings his bag over his shoulder and starts moving at a speed that’s dangerously close to running, only pausing briefly at the curb so he doesn’t kill himself crossing the street. Maybe he should have scanned his surroundings more thoroughly before stepping down onto the road, because he’s only taken one step before a fucking  _ body  _ barrels into his side, knocking the air from his lungs and the bag of groceries from his hand.

Richie swears loudly at the same time a car horn blasts a little too close to his head for comfort. He throws his hands out to try and catch himself before he hits the

water. He breaks the surface like he’s been thrown against a brick wall, stomach-first, a harsh slap resonating throughout the quarry. His shriek of pain is silenced by the freezing liquid as it floods his nose, his ears, his mouth, which is still wide-open in a scream. For a horrifying second, he thinks he’s probably about to drown, but then his feet hit the muddy bottom and he kicks off it, spluttering and coughing when he finally resurfaces. Eddie’s voice bounces around his skull like a broken record, shrieking at him about germs and cholera and fucking AIDs or something. Richie grins to himself, knowing that that very same familiar, high-pitched voice would  _ actually _ be ringing in his ears right now if Eddie hadn’t been the bastard who pushed him into the germ-infested water in the first place. 

The smug little shit is standing at the top of the cliff now with his arms folded over his bare chest and a sly smirk tugging at his lips. Richie glares up at him and flips him off with both hands. Eddie returns the gesture, so Richie makes a show of looking away and sending tidal waves of water in the direction of a madly giggling Beverly.

The sun is warm on his back. He’s happy. They’re all happy.

“It’s not funny at all, you could have fucking killed me!” Richie shoves at Eddie when the seven of them finally clamber out of the water and sprawl themselves out on the sun-warmed rocks. Eddie shoves Richie back, laughing hysterically.

“It  _ was _ pretty funny, Rich,” Bev chuckles from where she’s lying on her back, head resting on a very flustered Ben’s lap. 

Richie gapes at her and clutches his chest dramatically. “Not Miss Ringwald! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I agree with Bev,” Ben says quietly.

Richie scoffs. “Of course you do. You’re fucking sadists, all of you.” Richie points an accusatory finger at each of them in turn, lingering on Eddie the longest. The shorter boy punches Richie in the shoulder, scowling when Richie just grins stupidly down at him. He puts his hands on his hips, eyebrows furrowed, hair damp and messy and sticking up in unruly spikes all over his head. Richie wants to ruffle it. 

“I’m not a sadist, asshole.”

“I’m not a sadist, either,” Stan chimes in dryly. He’s sitting with his legs crossed, leaning back against a smooth slab of rock, obviously unamused. “Richie, your accusation doesn’t apply to me.”

“What’s a sadist?” Ben asks.

“Someone who gets pleasure from inflicting pain on people,” Mike answers, and Ben nods thoughtfully.

Bill smirks. “S-So E-Eddie  _ definitely _ is a s-s-sadist then.”

Eddie lunges forwards and attempts to put Bill in a headlock, while Richie watches with a shit-eating grin on his face. He doesn’t think he could ever truly put into words the feeling that bubbles in the pit of his stomach whenever Eddie’s face scrunches up like that; when he’s all furious and determined and stubborn. How could he describe a feeling he doesn’t even understand properly himself?

Richie wraps his arms around his bare torso as a chill races down his spine, in spite of the midday heat still beating down on his reddening shoulders.

The Losers have fallen into a sort of routine over the years when it comes to parting ways. It’s always Stan who leaves first, insisting he has to be home in time for dinner or he’ll be indefinitely grounded. Following suit are Bill and Mike, who have slowly become almost joined at the hip, ever since Mike joined the gang during the summer of ‘89. The other Losers like to joke that they’re glued nearly as tightly together as Richie and Eddie; a package deal. Bev and Ben leave together as well, although that’s mostly due to the fact that Bev always insists she walk Ben home, which causes Ben to blush every time without fail. Everybody knows he would never admit that it should be the other way around. He takes what he can get.

And that leaves Richie and Eddie. Just the two of them, alone at the quarry, limbs splayed out over the cooling rocks, legs tangled together beneath the smudged violet sky.

Being together is something that’s so far from just plain old routine; it’s easier than breathing, really. They’re each other’s oxygen, existing as one when they’re together without even needing to be aware of it. Bickering and teasing and touching all comes so naturally now, so much so that any outsider would be surprised something as peaceful as silence can settle between them just as easily.

Eddie flings an arm across Richie’s chest. He’s on his side, forehead pressed to Richie’s shoulder, legs entwined with the other boy’s much longer ones. Richie sighs, and Eddie sighs with him. Their chests rise and fall in sync.

Both of them know they could never lie like this anywhere else. Here, there’s no one around to see them. There’s no one around to hurt or tease or ask questions that neither of them could even begin to answer.

That’s why Richie likes it here. It might be his favourite place in the world.

“Rich?” Eddie’s voice is small; not quite scared, but timid, as if he’s hesitant to break the comfortable silence.

Richie grazes his fingertips over the freckles on Eddie’s upper arm. “What’s up, Eds?”

Eddie takes a moment to continue. It sounds for a second like his breath is faltering, hitching in his throat, and Richie briefly wonders if he brought his inhaler. He uses it less often these days, but still needs it from time to time. Now doesn’t seem to be one of those times after all, because when Eddie finally speaks again, his voice is steady, strong.

“Do you ever wonder what’ll happen when we finish school?”

Richie turns on his side now, to face Eddie. Their noses are closer than they should be, but neither of them move away.

“Sometimes, yeah,” Richie admits. Eddie’s eyes glint with something; sadness, or nostalgia, perhaps. Richie can’t tell, because Eddie’s eyelids are fluttering shut, lashes kissing freckled cheeks. Richie’s heart pounds in his ears. He wonders if Eddie can hear it too.

“You think we’ll still be friends?” It comes out a whisper, Eddie’s hot breath tickling Richie’s cheeks. “Like, once we leave Derry?”

Richie bites his lip. “You planning on getting the fuck outta here as fast as I am?” he chuckles, and Eddie laughs along softly.

“Yeah.” He opens his eyes and looks up at Richie through dark lashes. His irises are bright and pupils dilated, like how Richie knows they get when he’s especially passionate about something. Richie feels his heart swell.

“I hate this fuckin’ town,” Eddie continues, his voice wavering a little. “Sometimes I don’t even know why I hate it so much, but I can feel something inside of me telling me to get as far away as possible, as soon as I can. It’s like…” Eddie gestures towards his stomach, splaying his fingers out gently over the soft skin. “... constant dread, you know? Like something terrible is about to happen.”

Richie shifts a little, tightening his grip around Eddie’s shoulders. “Or, like something terrible has already happened and you can’t remember what or how or why,” he says bitterly.

Eddie nods. “You just  _ know _ .”

Richie takes a deep breath, which seems to be enough of a response for Eddie, because he pulls himself impossibly closer and nuzzles his head into Richie’s chest. Richie is sure he can hear his heartbeat now, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s what he wants: for Eddie to hear all of the unspoken words and feelings that he can’t make sense of through the steady beating of his fragile heart.

Eddie sniffs. “Promise we’ll still be friends no matter what?”

Richie buries his nose in Eddie’s hair. He smells like lavender shampoo and warmth and the quarry. He smells like home.

“Eds, I

am so fucking sorry, oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

Richie is sure he’s stuck in some sort of odd, sweaty fever dream. The world around him is moving too fast but also too painfully slow at the same time, and there’s a dull ache in his head that’s making his brain feel like cotton wool. He knows the pain is probably just a result of his fall, but something clawing at his gut says otherwise. What does that even mean? He doesn’t fucking know.

Right now, Richie cares less about the throbbing in his head and knees, and more about the unlucky pedestrian he just body-slammed into the concrete, so he clambers to his feet, swaying a little before regaining his balance and at least forty percent of his vision. He flings a hand out, but is taken off guard when the guy, still in an uncomfortable jumble of limbs on the ground, just straight-up starts  _ yelling  _ at him.

“You fucking asshole! Are you serious right now? I just bought that fucking sandwich, fuck!” 

Richie blinks at him once, twice, three times, before he realises the reason he can’t see as clearly as he’d like to is because his glasses are on the floor at his feet. He bends down to pick them up, still in a state of stupor from quite literally almost murdering a stranger and himself a handful of seconds earlier.

The guy, now having scrambled to his feet, shoves at Richie’s chest, forcing him back up onto the sidewalk and out of the path of any more oncoming traffic. He’s muttering to himself, running a hand through his hair, glaring down to his left every now and again at the half-eaten salad sandwich lying, dismembered, on the asphalt. Richie wants to roll his eyes, but he imagines he’d be distressed too if his lunch had been violently propelled from his hands by a complete stranger.

“This stupid city is full of dickheads. Why did I ever agree to stay here? How is this even a place people want to go on fucking vacation?”

Richie nudges his glasses back onto his nose, glances at the guy properly for the first time, and almost stumbles right back onto the road with the sheer force of the emotions that hit him all at once, at full speed, like a fucking freight train to the head.

“What the  _ fuck?!” _

The man’s eyebrows furrow in confusion and annoyance. “ _ What the fuck? _ ” He repeats Richie’s lovely sentiment back to him mockingly, but Richie can’t be pissed because he’s too busy losing his shit.

“Is… are you…  _ Eddie fucking Kaspbrak?!” _

Eddie’s face goes completely blank at the same moment Richie lets out an embarrassing, strangled noise that can only be described as a sob mixed with a maniacal cackle. He claps a hand over his mouth and takes a step forwards, which compels Eddie to take several more backwards. The shorter man loses his footing as his heel catches a crack in the sidewalk, and Richie lurches towards him, grabbing his wrist to steady him. Then they just stand there, only a few inches between them, for what is probably far too long to be deemed normal. Eddie’s eyes grow increasingly wider with every second he spends marveling at Richie’s flushed face, which only makes Richie’s cheeks burn redder and hotter until he really can’t take it anymore.

“I can’t believe it’s you.”

The tension almost instantly dissipates as Richie releases Eddie’s wrist and shuffles backwards a little. He beams down at him, feeling tears stinging the corners of his eyes. “It’s really you, Eds.”

Eddie’s face twists in the way it always used to when he was trying his best not to laugh at one of Richie’s ludicrous jokes, and that realisation — that memory alone — makes the ache in Richie’s heart override the one in his head.

Then Eddie’s expression softens, all of his previous anger dissolved, although his eyes are still wide and terrified. His voice is almost a whisper as he chokes out, “Richie?”

Richie nods, still beaming, like he’s a child who’s just been offered an extra serving of dessert. And, well, that’s really not too far off from the current situation, because Richie is hardly ashamed to admit that skinny, timid little Eddie Kaspbrak has somehow grown into — for lack of better terms — a full three course meal.

Somewhere amidst the cloud of overwhelming emotions consuming him, Richie really can’t help noticing what’s so blatantly right in front of him. He thinks it’s definitely illegal for someone to look this good wearing a polo shirt and loose dad jeans cuffed at the ankles, but the way they cling to Eddie’s toned thighs really just sets something off in a very dark, very repressed corner of Richie’s mind.

He focuses his stare on Eddie’s face instead, and feels his stomach jump when their eyes meet. The force of his gaze is like a punch in the gut, those anxious doe-eyes burning holes right through his head, completely overwhelmed by the fact that Eddie Kaspbrak is standing right here in front of him after god knows how many years. He has the sudden urge to reach out and pull him against his chest; to hold him and never let him go again.

Eddie opens and shuts his mouth a few times when Richie can’t form any words of his own, then finally finds himself able to force out, “I… I didn’t remember you.”

There’s a jolt in Richie’s heart, and a tiny voice at the back of his mind, hissing at him.

_ You didn’t remember him either. You didn’t even recognise him when you ran into him. How could you ever forget him? He was your whole life. _

_ You promised. _

“Fuck.” 

Then Richie feels a tear roll down his cheek, and he knows he’s fucked.

Eddie’s expression morphs into one of horror when Richie starts spluttering and swiping at his eyes out of seemingly nowhere. Eddie freezes where he is, eyes darting left and right, and for a moment Richie thinks he might just run away and leave him there to blubber to himself. Richie wouldn’t blame him. He probably looks like he’s just escaped an insane asylum; a fully grown adult having a breakdown on the footpath in the middle of the city like a goddamn toddler.

But then Eddie doesn’t run away, and instead steps forwards and clasps Richie’s shoulder with a warm, steady hand. Richie feels himself being led out of the street, out of the sun, into the shade of a nearby alleyway. He covers his mouth to conceal an embarrassing sob that attempts to claw its way up his throat. Eddie’s hand is still resting firmly on his shoulder.

“I- I’m sorry, I—”

“Richie Tozier.” Eddie says his name in complete wonderment, like he still hasn’t totally come to terms with the fact that they’re here, together, and Eddie is touching him, and Richie thinks that maybe he hasn’t let go yet because he’s afraid that if he does, Richie might just fade out of existence again.

Richie sniffs. “That’s my name, baby, don’t wear it out.”

To his surprise, Eddie lets out a sudden, ear-splitting cackle. “Such an idiot,” he murmurs fondly, more to himself than to Richie. “You were always such a fucking idiot.”

Richie grins wetly. He swipes his thumbs under his eyes, collecting the last of his tears as his shaky sobs slowly subside into quiet sniffles. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe I’m here either,” Eddie says, sounding genuinely incredulous. “I still don’t know how Myra roped me into this. L.A. is a fucking nightmare. If she wanted to stay in the States so badly, we could have just gone to fucking Hawaii or something—”

“Myra?” Richie doesn’t mean for it to come out so bitterly, and he definitely doesn’t mean to make Eddie’s face drop and his eyebrows knit together, but something about the name makes nausea settle in his gut.

Eddie looks like he doesn’t want to answer, and for a second Richie’s heart soars, but then he says blandly, “She’s my wife.”

Richie allows himself approximately two seconds to process this information, and an extra second to regain his composure after almost falling back into hysterics.

“Shit, man.” He forces a laugh. “Little Eddie Spaghetti really went and tied the knot before his sexiest best friend.”

Eddie gives him a Look, and Richie adds hurriedly, “But like, actually, congrats man. That’s totally cool. Like, she’s one fucking lucky little lady to marry a guy like you. I mean, assuming she’s little, of course. If she isn’t, that’s kinda awkward for you, don’t you think? Like, having to stand on your tiptoes to—”

“Beep fucking beep, Richie.” Eddie looks like he’s trying to appear irritated, but there’s a fond smile forcing the corners of his lips skyward. He gives up the facade and rolls his eyes affectionately. “You’re still as annoying as ever, you know that?”

Richie grins through clenched teeth. “Yowch. Fuckin’

zing, Eds! He gets off  _ another _ good one!”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to fucking call me that before you get it through your thick fucking skull?”

Richie feels knuckles scraping the side of his head, and he giggles, struggling against Eddie’s insistent grip on both his wrists. His bony fingers dig into Richie uncomfortably, neatly trimmed nails probably leaving little crescent indents in his skin. Richie doesn’t mind.

He knows, if he really wanted to, he could push Eddie from his stomach easily, without struggle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks Eddie knows it too. 

The smaller boy shifts, shuffling further up Richie’s stomach. His knees are splayed either side of Richie’s chest now, his overgrown hair cascading down his forehead and neck and swooping over his shoulders in adorable curls. His mischievous smile lights up his entire face and ignites the sparkle in his eyes. It takes Richie’s breath away. It always does.

“Okay, you’ve proven your point, Spaghetti Head.” Richie rolls his eyes and tries to will away the heat rising in his chest and up to his cheeks. It’s too much now. It’s too much of Eddie; on top of him, around him, almost entirely enveloping him with his scent and the sound of his laugh. Richie can’t take it. “Get off. Eddie, get off me.”

There’s a sense of urgency in his voice that has Eddie freezing for a second, concerned, before he rolls swiftly off Richie’s chest and onto his back on the carpet. Richie pushes himself into an upright position, leaning back against the wooden frame of his bed. He breathes in deeply, ignoring Eddie’s questioning gaze burning into the side of his face.

“Rich?” 

Richie hates when Eddie’s voice goes all small and nervous like that. He especially hates when  _ he’s _ the cause of it.

Richie takes one final, calming breath, and turns to face Eddie with a lopsided grin. Eddie watches as he adjusts his glasses, fingers quivering as he nudges them further up the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry, dude. Almost squashed me for a second there.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean t—”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Richie dismisses his worries with an assured wave of his hand. “Just being dramatic old me. You didn’t do nothing wrong, Eduardo.”

Eddie hesitates, eyes darting across Richie’s face like he’s searching for any trace of a lie, before instinctively blurting, “That’s not my name.”

Then Richie grins, genuinely this time, because that very reaction is the reason he never says Eddie’s name right in the first place.

Later that night, once Eddie has gone home, Richie looks at the stars.

He doesn’t look at the stars often, because, to be perfectly honest, they’re kind of boring. They don’t do much except sit, unmoving, on their canvas of black, twinkling and winking at him every so often. He winks back sometimes, making himself laugh with the absurdity of it; the absurdity of Richie Tozier, the most easily distracted, restless person on the planet, just marvelling in complete silence at the night sky. It’s pretty  cliché , he can admit that, but sometimes a boy has just got to stargaze to set his wandering mind at ease.

Now, perched on his windowsill and wrapped like a caterpillar in a cocoon in his warmest blanket, Richie wonders just how many stars are actually out there.

He knows that the universe is ever-expanding, stretching on and on for eternity and beyond, tracing the very edge of infinity. Despite what it seems, he actually  _ does _ listen in science class. And he finds it surprisingly interesting.

Space is sort of wild, he thinks. It’s dark and cold and terrifying. It gives him chills to even think about floating out among the stars, lost in a black sea of silence. Gazing up at the trillions of tiny dots spattered like white paint across the horizon from the view of his bedroom window, he finds it kind of ironic how something so incredibly beautiful is also one of the eeriest, most dangerous places in existence.

Maybe it’s like, however pretty something — or someone — may be, the feeling of absolute terror that comes with actually experiencing such beauty firsthand is a thought frightening enough to numb Richie’s body from the ends of his hair down to his toes. He thinks about the only times he ever feels so stricken with panic and fear that he can’t feel his own limbs. There’s a name on the tip of his tongue and a face hovering behind his eyelids as he closes them against the glare of the moon.

Richie wishes he never looked up at the stars tonight.

After a moment that seems to stretch into forever, he lets his eyes flutter open again, ignoring the tears clouding his vision and pooling on his cheeks. He curses the sky out loud, glaring furiously up at it, an agonising spark setting his heart and his lungs ablaze.

“Fuck you!” His anguished shout is lost to the night. 

For a second, Richie thinks he makes out a constellation of what could only be a turtle, paddling out amongst the stars in its inky pool, but it’s gone again when he blinks.

**Author's Note:**

> HOW MANY NIGHTS DOES IT TAKE TO COUNT THE STARS THAT’S THE TIME IT WOULD TAKE TO FIX MY HEART sorry i had to.
> 
> I hope you like my Stephen-King-esque structure with the whole jumping between past and present lmao. I enjoyed it in the book so I thought, why not steal it for myself. Not all the chapters will be like this, but let me know if you like it or not anyway lol.


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